The first part of our trip was all about expectancy, adjusting, and receiving. Arriving to the Motherland was out of this world. We landed like at 9 am. As I stepped out of the plane there were too many thoughts in my head: How is the food? How do you say bathroom in Swahili? I can’t wait to see the kids! I need to take a lot of pictures and so on . . .

Everything was a rush. We got our bags, and were welcomed by two girls from the FoxFire team (the youth Ministry that were with us). Our welcoming committee wore blue shirts and their smile welcomed us. I looked up and there was a sign that said: “Smile, You’re in Kenya.” For some reason that made my heart jump.

When we got inside our bus, all I thought about was Dominican Republic. It looked very similar, except poverty was more obvious in Kenya. This can be seen in the streets since most people were walking or in a car. I fell asleep on the bus right away only to wake up to this beautiful complex. The air smelled like burning wood or leña, and the place was surrounded by nature. All the ladies stayed at the first house and the men were taken to the middle house. I felt as if I was in college all over again when I saw a door tag on my door. I jumped in my bed and noticed a mosquito net on top of me. I felt at home.

At 2:00 pm, after napping, showering, eating breakfast and lunch, we went to the ByGrace Home, the orphanage we worked with. Our time over there was beyond measure. As soon as we stepped out of the bus the kids came running to us. Immediately they got in a circle and we started to dance and sing. Afterwards the kids had a presentation for us. They wore dancing outfits and performed for us. There were several introductions and presentations and then we had a tea break. We ate the most delicious biscuits and drank tea.

We blew bubbles with the kids and played with them. I am glad we had this visit. The ByGrace Home housed 22 total kids who all slept in a total of three rooms in the second floor. Their small living room served as their school. Next week we would start constructing a school for them, and the entire team was excited.

The night came rather quickly. Before I knew it, we were back to the AEE (African Evangelistic Enterprise) house. We had a delicious dinner. The food was similar to what I eat everyday: white rice, a beef stew, delicious Kenyan bread (chapati) and greens. During dinner the foxfire team taught us a Swahili song, which became a group favorite, and we sang it together. Everyone went to sleep early. We were still exhausted from all the traveling.

I was anticipating what would happen the rest of the week. Everything was still unreal to me. I could not believe I was in Africa, but even more, I could not imagine the way I was going to serve the people and make a difference. The suspense was killing me, but I decided to turn my brain off, and just feel the experience.

For Fun:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lS47TSp-NY0

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=25sfoRiSDwE

Two weeks ago my vision to go to Africa began. I can’t believe it actually manifested itself. The funny thing about visions is that the more you see it and want it, the more the world works against you, but somehow with enough faith it manages to come true. The first day of my journey began in London. Here is an example of pure craziness.

We arrived to London at about 9:00 am (4am US time). Everyone was excited and awake. We left our bags at the Left Luggage in Heathrow Airport and immediately took the subway. Our flight to Nairobi, Kenya would not be till nighttime, so we had the entire day to explore. We went all the way downtown where we met the rest of the group. Twenty eight of us from all over the world were finally together for this 2 week mission project. As the group found a place to eat, I looked directly in front of me and saw Big Ben, the clock next to the river. It was such a cloudy day. The feeling of being in London did not hit me. I guess I have traveled to so many places, I take sites for granted. I saw how my friends fed the pigeons and a dozen flew our way. When they finished we began to walk. We had a whole city to explore. We laughed and took pictures of the funny taxis, the way people drove on the other side of the rode, and the way people were similar to those walking in NY (selling roasted peanuts, hot dogs, and showing their creativity through 2 minutes of drawing a caricature). After walking all over London we ended up in this small coffeeshop that had a Barnes and Nobles look. We decided to meet the entire group there since we had split up. I was cracking up because there were people in the group that really, really had to use the bathroom (if you know what I mean), but the bathroom did not flush. Lauren and I started writing a rap song to mock them and we were almost finished when it happened. Jen said she could not find her small purse where she had all her documents. This was not good. Here we were in London, waiting for half the group. It was 3:15 pm. It would take at least 45 minutes to get back to the Heathrow airport and we had to start boarding at 6:15 since our flight was at 7:15. Now we had to retrace all of our steps. The battle was on.

We went all the way back to where we first had lunch by Big Ben. In retrospect, it probably was not the smartest thing to do. We should have retraced our steps backwards. Since it was not in the expected location, we retraced the entire town, for a second time. This time it was only four of us on the mission. Since it was hot I decided to leave my backpack with Ken, the leader. I was not going to walk around London with my big backpack. I was on a mission and I was certain I would find her documents. There I was walking behind my three freshmen: the victim, her boyfriend and the best friend. For some odd reason I was ever so peaceful. We walked so fast, looked everywhere and asked everyone. I even prayed and tried to listen but all I heard was be still, be still Eliana. By the time we went around town one hour had passed and we had to think quick. The rest happened very quickly, like a movie. We met half the team by the main bridge, next to Big Ben. Bertrand, the Switzerland guy, was on the phone with Ken and said, “They are right here, we got them.” He told Jen she needs to hop on a taxi and go to the American Embassy where they will issue her a temporary passport. Ken would meet her and Angelika there. The only problem was they closed in 10 minutes and it would take one hour to get the passport. This is on top of the fact that we had to get the train to the airport and check in, all before 6:15. It was now 4:20 pm. Could a taxi make it all across town? Well, what usually takes 15 minutes without traffic took 45 minutes. The taxi driver said that there has not been so much traffic since 9/11. Something was definitely working against us. When they got there the place was closed and somehow they let them in. How they managed to get to the airport in time for the plane beats me. I was unaware of their side of the story. Meanwhile back to the group…

We all jumped on the subway and arrived to the airport. Everyone was there except Jen (the victim), Angelika ( the best friend) , and Ken ( the group leader). Everyone went through the gates and passed security, hoping to meet the others on the other side. There was one slight problem: I could not go through because Ken had my backpack, which held my passport. I could not board and boarding began in 10 minutes.

6:00 pm - Xavier decided to stay behind with me, since he wanted to see how Jen was doing. Moses, another participant also stayed because he had an international phone and we needed to call Ken. Praise God for these men.

6:15 pm - Moses looks at me and says we need a plan. He tells Xavier that if its 6:30 and we are not back to run to the gate and tell them not to close it because there are still people outside. Moses and I decided to go downstairs to the other building to wait by the Left Luggage. Ken left his bag there, so he had to pass by to pick up his bag. We waited and nothing happened.

6:30 pm - Moses looks at me and says: “I need to get on this plane. Take my phone and wait by the gate, good luck.” He ran back to the gate. “Did he just leave me here? Talk about being a Deliverer!” Here I was in London. No money. No identification and in my hand was a Blackberry. I was waiting for three people, one of which was the group leader who had my bag.

6:45 pm - Our plane would leave at 7:15 and everyone was on it but me. Ironically I felt peaceful. I left the gate. I walked down the hall, down the stairs, went outside and back in another building to the Left luggage with hopes that I would see Ken there, but nothing. I decided to call Ken one last time. There was one problem, the phone was locked. “Great, just what I needed.” I closed my eyes and told God that it did not matter. If it was his will that I stayed then that is fine. I was convinced I was staying. I was calm, yet I kept pacing back and forth.

7:00 pm - Suddenly the phone rang. Yes! It was Moses. The irony. He starts talking with a rushed voice. “Eliana where are you? You need to go back to the gate. Andrea is waiting for you.” Now I thought, “Who is Andrea, and why is she waiting for me?” He told me that everyone including Ken were on the plane. I thought about it and then a rush entered my body and I knew I was not staying behind. I ran the long hall way, out the building, went inside the other, up the stairs and then down another long hallway. Andrea was wearing red, she was a Virgin Atlantic Lady. As I ran I met her eyes. She nodded as if she knew who I was. She looked at me and said, “Follow me.” This was intense. She had my passport and I felt as if I was in an action movie. We skipped the line and went through this secret path. We walked quickly through hallways and back doors. Andrea’s phone rang and she was giving quick replies. Then she said, “Okay, she will run there.” She increased her pace, and I increased mine. I was not walking fast because if she was not in a rush, I did not need to be. I looked at her and asked her, “Are you flying with me?” and she smiled and said, “No.” At that point I knew I was by myself and I had to run! I started to jog. She gave me my passport and told me it was gate 26 in her British accent. “Great, five gates to go,” I thought. She waved and said, “Good luck.” All I could do was laugh. “Honey, I don’t operate by luck,” I thought. I ran as fast as I could. I was sweaty and smelly. My body was simply disgusting. I held a fruity umbrella in one hand, and a camera and Blackberry in the other. I turned so many times and once I saw Gate 24 I ran faster. All I could think about as I ran was, “Man, this would make a great blog.” Up ahead I saw one of those airport people movers only to find that it was broken. “Ugh, more running!” Finally I managed to see a security who was screaming, “Nairobi, Nairobi!” That was not my name, but it was my destination so I replied yes!!

7:25 pm - They got my boarding pass and I saw the faces of my team. They clapped and hugged me. Apparently they refused to go inside the plane till I was inside. And of course they had to wait. The attendants were not going to remove the luggage of 28 people. It would have taken them longer. Talk about solidarity. I wondered how Ken was there, and he told us how he lost his phone and had no idea he had my passport. We went inside and I was laughing. I was also sweaty beyond thought. I had no option but to take my shirt off and borrow one of Xavier’s. It’s funny. The reason I left my bag with Ken was to not sweat and be smelly.

It seemed that everyone had their own individual story. Talk about an icebreaker. Jen looked at me and smiled. It brought me comfort because I knew she had her passport and was feeling better. She sent me a quote that read: “Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.” The irony. It was the same quote I gave the team one week before coming. Your own medicine sometimes heals you. That concluded our London adventure, a very wonderful beginning to a life changing trip. I learned one very important lesson from all of this craziness:

When in London, wear running sneakers and carry an ATM card.

It’s rare that the Chairman & CEO of JP Morgan Chase Jaime Dimon gives a public speech, but on Tuesday (July 8), he addressed the FDIC Mortgage Conference in Washington, DC. His topic was broad-based with the state of the financial markets and his overall economy as the focal points of his comments. The list of speakers at the conference was a who’s who, including Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke.

During his speech, Dimon expressed his concern about the tone in which some conservative members of Congress are addressing the immigration debate. In his speech, Dimon said, “Let’s not kill the golden goose.” He then went on to say, “I listen to some of our politicians speak, and I think they’re going to send ME back.” It was the only time he got some laughter and long applause in appreciation that some conservative members of Congress have gone too far with the immigration/deportation debate.

Dimon then added “we have to build a economy that is vibrant and healthy and some policies can destroy that . . . don’t destroy the beauty of this economy that could produce so much,” which was a message directed to those anti-immigrant members of Congress that immigrants are a source of growth for the U.S. economy.

His comments were very welcoming in my opinion as JP Morgan Chase recognizes the importance of immigration in the United States. His comments sparked a debate on CNBC, which is the official television network of Wall Street. Shortly after Dimon concluded his remarks, there was a short but clearly heated debate between CNBC contributor Charlie Gasparino and CNBC Anchor Michelle Caruso-Cabrera. Gasparino thought that it was not a good speech by Dimon and added that he thought Dimon made a “crazy comment about immigration.” Caruso-Cabrera, feeling that Gasparino was injecting his own conservative views on immigration, cut him off to clarify and defend Dimon. It sparked an argument between Gasparino and Caruso-Cabrera. This is yet another example as to why it’s important that we have diversity in the broadcast media. Thankfully Caruso-Cabrera (who is Latina and was once named by Hispanic Magazine as one of the 100 Most Influential Hispanics” in the nation) set the record straight before a live national audience that Dimon’s stance on immigration is a positive one.

Even on Wall Street, the issue of immigration is a hot topic. I for one am thankful that the Chairman & CEO of the third largest banking institution in the United States understands the importance of immigration and it makes me feel proud to be a JP Morgan Chase customer. As a Wall Street financial analyst, it also gives me pleasure to see that we have anchors on CNBC such as Caruso-Cabrera who understand the positive of the immigration debate and will not allow contributors to inject their own politics into an objective economic debate.

To see some of the videos clips, visit http://www.cnbc.com/ and search “Dimon” and you will see some of the clips that I reference in this blog. Bravo to JP Morgan Chase President & CEO Jaime Dimon and bravo to CNBC Anchor Michelle Caruso-Cabrera.

One, “Oh hell no, you didn’t come to El Salvador and not drink at least one beer with your cousins. For that you might as well have stayed in the U.S., Yankee!”, seventy-five mosquito bites, more than a hundred jokes of which I was the punchline, one allergic reaction to a pupusa with pork, one incredible drunken night, one horrible hangover, one, “Did you kill yourself?” from Grandma, with a, “I think so” response from me. One, “Where the hell am I? Oh, I’m in El Salvador.” Two shrimp and oyster cocktails, two fried fish with rice and salad, two trips to the beach “Conchalio, Mirpon” and mini soccer game with Godfather. Twenty, “Damn you didn’t grow a bit, mijo!” from tias, tios and cousins. One family gathering that turned into two. One, “C’mon just stick your fingers down your throat and all this will be over!” One fainting incident. One, “I remember why I use to drink” moment, followed by, “I remember now, why I don’t drink!” moment. Twelve “refills” from my cousin, and dancer, to a resounding, “Yes” from me, “RE-Fill, RE-Fill, RE-Fill.” One, “Grandma used to kick my ass all the time, I don’t know what you are talking about” to a “You were the special one, no one ever touched you!” One, “I never spanked you” to “Oh yeah, I did, when you didn’t want to eat and use to jump the fence to go play futbol.” One, “I told you so.” One, “Damn grandma was a looker when she was young,” to an uncle’s response, “Yeah why do you think there were 13 of us?” To a cousin’s response, “No television.”

One, “A secret between two is of God, between three is of Satan,” while Grandma stared at me while I was in the room (insinuating I was Satan!). One, “Holy crap, are we in Hell?” Uncle, “We might be. Check if your grandma’s here!” One, “Mira hijo de P%&a, I’m not too old to pull your ears!” One, “So, you went to Mirpon and they said it was a good business day. Who drank all those beers?” With no choice but to tell the truth, my aunt, my two cousins, and myself, said, “Grandma drank all those beers tio; see, she was so lit, she was dancing Reggaeton!” (True story by the way, not that she drank all the beers, but that she was dancing Reggaeton).

One, “I was so hungry, because I didn’t eat on the plane, in the hopes that when I landed they would take me to Pollo Campero (El Salvador’s national fast food chain of chicken), but instead, they took me to Pizza Hut!” Uncle, “You were so set on Pollo Campero, that when they asked you if you wanted anything to eat, you said, ‘pio’.” One, “I have to let him win (my uncle in the game of soccer), but I don’t think he needs help, he can move for an old out of shape, beer gut guy.” One, “I heard that, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t call me old.” One, “Hey the lady with the bill is looking for you”; one, “How did she know I’m the one who’s going to pay?” Thirteen family members turn and look at grandma, “She told her.” Two unexpected farts from the old lady, which left me surprised. One room-clearing fart, which left my cousins saying, “Ese polvo esta fuerte!” One, (to my first cousin) “I can’t believe you had three years to find me a girlfriend and you failed.” One, (after hearing what I had to say, my young 12-year-old, second cousin went on her own to immediately find me a girlfriend) “Here tio, te presento a mi prima.” One, “I love you prima for being proactive.”

One, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this is not the first time I’ve had a shotgun pointed at me.” One, “Don’t worry it’s not loaded, but it’s not meant for you, it’s for him.” One, “Huh? Well shotguns splatter, point it that way!” One, “Please don’t take pictures in here.” One, “I didn’t know, so can I take the bunny ears off then?”

One, “Wow, the women are so beautiful.” One, “Hey, I know I look good but why is everyone staring at me?” One, “They know you’re from El Norte, but they can’t figure out if you got deported or you’re here visiting.” One, “Hey do you mind if we go to the beach, pick up this lady, drive back, and then go eat?” One, “Do I have a choice?” “No.” “Then I guess I don’t mind.” One, “Hey I think the battery is dead.” One, “Ok, so what does that mean?” One, “Means we can’t go anywhere.” One, “Hell NO! I’ll buy you it and we’re good for the rest of the trip!” One, “Holy crap, I think I passed the Ruins of Tazumal.” Me, “How do you know?” Primo, “’Cause we’re five kilometers from Guatemala.” One, “We drove for two hours, almost ended up in Guatemala, and this S&*T is closed!????” Primo, cool, calm, and collected, “It does appear that way, oh well, what you going to do? Well, at least take a picture now that you’re here.”

One too many stories of the civil war and how my cousin was forced to kill himself because he had escaped an ambush by the guerillas; uncle was assassinated (by the military death squad). One story on how the FMLN targeted my other uncle. One story of how my aunt had to flee the country because the Military Death Squad was going to kill her and my cousins. Two stories on how my uncle became involved in the guerrilla movement. One story on how one of my uncles couldn’t leave the Police Station where he was, while the combat was two blocks from his house. One, “I can’t believe this, I never saw my two uncles together during the war.” One, “I don’t think I ever did either.” Two, “The good times we missed due to our country’s war.” One, “Holy crap, we were there!?” One, “Yeah, and you were chanting: ‘El pueblo unido, jamas sera vencido.’ ” One, “I can see me saying that!” Two, “And you were only four.”

Airplane ticket, $753 plus tax; three nights clubbing, $300; two nights of family outings, $230; 30 pupusas in the total trip, about $10; 5 coconuts, $2.50; one long trip to Guatemala to ruins that were closed, $45; one incredible drinking binge for a day, $120; one car battery, $74; five Pollo Campero visits, $40; four bus rides, $2; two $24 cleats; one $10 watch; $60 worth of miscellaneous stuff for friends and family; countless war stories from both sides of the family and family-related stories; one ecstatic aunt; and one Reggaeton dancing old lady of 88 years of age that I like to call Grandma: “PRICELESS.”

One day I was talking to a friend who said, I talk black! What? I talk black? What does that supposed to mean? She said, “you know, you talk slang.” Ok, but because I talk in slang terms, doesn’t mean I talk black. If my vernacular contains words like “hot,” “Dip,” “bounce,” etc. , it doesn’t mean I’m talking black; I’m just communicating through a sub-culture that is from the street, where I grew up.

Our English, for example, is a diminished form of the British tongue. Which raises the question: are we speaking proper English? Absolutely not! We are speaking a form of the English language, but not the original, nor the most eloquent (in my opinion). Spanish is the same thing. Puerto Ricans and Dominicans eat letters and if they speak fast enough, you will think they speak something other than Spanish (I know what I just said, and I expect Puerto Ricans and Dominicans to say something about it). Mexicans have words that in Colombia could get you killed or looked at funny. In El Salvador, a bunch of kids are called “bichos,” in Puerto Rico un “bicho” is well… you know. In other countries the word “bicho” can be mosquitos. So, my question is, because certain words are different or take different meanings, do I stop speaking English?

Hip-Hop is a culture created in the United States, just like Jazz, the only true American culture (as in the definition of culture). In the early 1970’s a sub-culture was created called “Hip-Hop” and within this culture four very important elements were created; Emceeing, Dee-Jaying, Graffiti and breakdancing. Eventually the culture grew many different facets, encompassing beat boxing (creating musical sounds with your mouth) street knowledge, street language, street fashion, and street entrepreneurship (and no, for you ignorant people, this does not mean selling drugs).

One of my many mentors once told me, “You have to balance life out; you can’t just be walking around talking like you’re in the street because people in the business world won’t take you seriously. But you can’t forget how to communicate with the people you grew up with; that would be lying to yourself.” As I grew out of the street, I also grew out of the language, but I maintain enough that I can understand when young adults are talking. To me it is important knowing how to communicate with the young people. How are we supposed to understand them if we don’t know what they are talking about? We try to correct them so much that we forget that just speaking slang is intelligence being personified in and of itself.

For example, I was chilling with my dawg da other day and da click hollard on da celly that they were about to scrap wit these marcs from up da way who started beef with my other homie. Or, that same day, this happened; my ride or die chick was buggen cause she peeped me parlaying to another shawty that had my scriptures in her book bag. My lady was hot! Word is bond, she was boiling, I thought we was going to beef, but nothing came of it. Funny how things work out huh?

But the most impressive portion of the day came when I had a conversation with a business executive from a prestigious bank. A man in his mid-40’s heard me humming Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power” shortly after our meeting about investments. He looked at me, and he said, “You a Hip-Hop head?”

I said, “Word up.”

“That’s was up, and you hummen a good joint too, that was the jam back in the day, what else you marauding (that’s right, marauding is word used in Hip-hop) with your ears?” he asked.

I responded, “Son, I listen to more old school than any of the new bunk stuff that’s out in the hood or radio, you feel me?”

“I feel you, rap has lost its flava,” he responded.

“No doubt” I agreed. And out of nowhere he says to me, “So what’s the deally, can you rhyme?” I was shocked by the question because no one has asked me that in years, but being the trooper that I am, I said, “Son, don’t you know? This Merlin you hollaren at, you must recognize that you in the presence of pure genius with lyrics.” So, he beat boxed and I rhymed for about an hour and a half. We freestyled about everything, from politics, sports, Iraq, women, to slavery and much more.

My point is that now that we are moving into the 21st century the Hip-Hop generation is moving into the main stream of business. We are doctors, lawyers, educators, businessmen (women), social workers and much more. Hip-Hop was created to be a deterrent of gang violence, but like everything else the media turns and the powers that be make it into something that is not and now it has an ugly head. So, I can see where people can look at me and say hey, “he’s talking black” because majority of the people you see on TV talking in slang are from the Hip-Hop genre who happen to be black. But go to Germany or England, you will hear people talking slang and they’re not black. No, I’m not talking black, I’m talking Hip-Hop. Just like you are speaking broken English from Britain, or broken Spanish, we are speaking our language, our original language. All languages were created so a group of people from a certain culture can speak to one another. So, I speak with my Hip-Hop brothers the way I’m supposed to, whether he’s a doctor, lawyer or banker. We speak the same language and we can communicate and we can exchange ideas without anyone trying to bring us down in our words and work. Yes we speak professionally in front of the “man” because we have to. But we don’t have to if we’re in the street. And when they join in, they say, “Hey my son says that, what does that mean?” I highly recommend anyone interested in learning slang, gets Big L’s “The Big Picture” and check out track numba two. Yea, Imma finish this in slang, cause that’s what this article/ blog is about and if you don’t feel it, then too bad.

To dead the convo, I’m gonna have to just be a bit poetic. If you feel like parlayin in ebonics or slang, brotha do you, as long as you know that they peep your every mis-direction and they critical of everything from your gear to your hustle. As a matta of fact, they don’t know you have muscle for the hustle and if they do, then you already know that this is part of the struggle. Don’t dip on your youngens and don’t believe that our culture causes violence, cause peeps been scrappen here since before there were boroughs on the Island. And the boys are always going to be on you and let lead loose from the heat when they find you in the street, that’s guaranteed, believe me. Get your learn on, cause they feenen for you to be in the pine box or behind the steel cage, carried out your crib in silver bracelets, cause they found a bag of trees in your basement and now your moms and pop dukes is out there in amazement. Wade in the water G, and remember learn both languages, the corporate and the street, cause I feel you, “My word play only contain what the hood say.” — Xhibit

The number 8 intrigues me. As a matter of fact it’s my favorite number.

Eight is the symbol of infinity and the number of new beginnings. The word sake appears in the Christian Bible eight times. In Buddhism, 8 is a lucky number and Muslims believe that there are seven hells but eight paradises.

Eight represents regeneration and resurrection. It determines the life of a man in China. For example, a boy gets his milk teeth at eight months, loses them at eight years, and reaches puberty at 16 (which is 2 times the number 8).

In chess, each side has eight pawns and the board is made of 64 squares arranged in an eight by eight lattice. In most phones, the 8 key is associated with the letters T, U, and V, but on the BlackBerry it is the key for B , N, and X. In Colombia and Venezuela, “volverse un ocho” (meaning to tie oneself in a figure refers to getting in trouble or contradicting one’s self. Even more interesting, 8 is an often significant number in video games, particularly Mario games (8 worlds in Super Mario Bros., 8 chapters in Paper Mario, etc). I am a big Nintendo fan.

Barack Obama was born in August, the 8th month of the year, in 1961 (1+9+6+1=17……..7+1=8). Not to mention he is the Democratic candidate for this year… 2008. The eight-year-old orphan, El Chavo, from the popular Mexican television show, El Chavo del Ocho, lived in apartment 8. Even Selena’s popular song “El Chico del apartamento 512″ contains 8. If you add 5+1+2 you get …… 8!

Eight is everywhere!!

8 pints make a gallon.
8 legs on a spider.
8 vegetables in V8 juice
8 tentacles on an octopus.
8 is a Fibonacci number.
8 is the atomic number of oxygen.
8 letters in the word b-l-o-g-g-e-r-s.

Only 8 more days left.

In 8 days I will finally step on African ground. In 8 days I will be in Nairobi, the capitol and largest city of Kenya. I am so anxious to interact with the orphans and learn about the culture. I can’t wait to start constructing the orphanage and start traveling from slum to slum to give HIV patients medical attention. I can’t wait till I improve my Swahili and learn the cultural dances of the different tribes. I can’t wait to hold a child in my arms and speak words that will resurrect his soul.

Only 8 more days till my life changes forever. Only 8 more days till a new beginning, one full of hope and promise.

My father Roberto was born in 1898. You heard right. And no, I’m not 80 years old. Not even close.

You see, I was one of the last of the nine kids born to my father and my mother Ines – who was about two decades younger.

Over the years, I got used to hearing: “So, how’s your grandfather?” My response was automatic: “He’s not my grandfather; he’s my father.”

When I picture my father, I see a very handsome and elegant man who enjoyed puffing on his pipe and wearing tailored suits with bowties. People would tell us that he looked like the actor Cesar Romero, and I would feel proud.

Quite honestly, I was a little intimidated by him so I always was happy when we shared some kind of personal connection. And it usually happened with few or no words between us.

I remember my mother would sometimes ask me to take him a beer and a shot of whiskey. I would carefully hold the shot glass in one hand and the beer in the other hand and slowly and carefully walk down the hallway – afraid to spill a drop but thrilled that I was charged with this important task. And I clearly recall sneaking quick sips of the whiskey and the beer – and recoiling yet savoring this grown-up taste. I would hand him the drinks and he would smile at me.

When my mother bought me new clothes, she would often ask me to put on each outfit and show them to my father. I would go before him and perhaps do a little twirl. And he would smile and nod his head.

But there’s something more that sticks out in my memories when I picture my father – it was a constant in our lives during the few years we shared. He was always reading. He always had a newspaper or a book or a magazine in his hands or near him. Always.

To feed his hunger for reading materials, he’d head over to the library in Plainfield where we grew up. And, I’m not sure how it started, but I became his companion during those trips. I had already become a bookworm myself – it was a great escape for a shy young girl.

He’d announce that he was heading to the library and we would both scoop up our books and head out to the car. I don’t remember really even speaking on those short trips but I remember feeling happy. Once we got to the library, he’d go to the adult section and I head over to the children’s books.

One day, when I was in high school and hanging outside because I didn’t want to go to class, a friend came looking for me. He told me I had to get to Muhlenberg Hospital where my father had gone a few days earlier. He was already in his 70s and hospitalizations for heart attacks were almost a way of life for us.

I got to the hospital and was left alone with him while my mother and other family members went for a break. He was lying peacefully in his bed so I figured he would rest a bit more and eventually he’d come home like he always did. On his nightstand, there was a book with the place marked where he had left off reading.

I knew I’d have some time to while away till my family came back, so I fished out a book I was carrying that day and began to read. Once in a while, I’d look up to check the movement of his chest. And then I’d go back to the book. I eventually finished the book and – seeing no other recourse – I turned to the first page and began to read it again. Then I looked up and saw that he had stopped breathing.

When I look back at that day and the years that preceded that final moment, I realize the gift that my father gave me.

Perhaps, I wonder, he knew that it was difficult for a man in his 60s and 70s to connect with a young girl – even if she was his daughter. Perhaps he knew that reading would be that connection. An eternal connection.

I now wish I had kept his library card. But shortly after that day in the hospital, I went to the library and up to the front desk. I handed over his library card and said “My father won’t be needing this anymore.”

I’m still a voracious reader. I like to imagine my father looking down on me – with a smile.

Fathers and mothers – please read to your children. Please take them to the library because there’s one thing I know with certainty: Their lives will be changed forever.

Here’s a song for all the fathers in our lives — young and old:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=218TvjXZfi8&feature=related

Have you ever had an ironically productive and memorable day? I have. This past Wednesday.

My morning started out as usual. I woke up, prayed and got ready to go to school. (I am subbing part-time.) I had to sub for an art teacher. That was a first. Because I am the least artistic person, I had no idea what I was going to do with the kids. As usual the teacher left no plans. I told the kids they were the best artists in the school and I wanted their best work. I was not Tyra. I was Ms. Reyes and I was looking for America’s next top artist. Boy was I impressed. I never had such skills in 5th grade! The kids told me they had fun and enjoyed displaying their skills. Luckily, we had half day because of the heat wave so I went home early.

After school, I was busy with a new project I am working on for Domestic Violence. I am so excited about it! Since it was so hot, and I did not want to wait till the sunset, I decided I would change my workout for the day. I ran up and down the stairs of my building to work out my legs and do some cardio. By the time I was nice and sweaty my mind said “stop,” but my spirit said “keep going.” I decided to stop. My heart felt as if it was going to explode. “No more leg exercises for today,” I thought. Then I went home and had the best Abs workout. After a nice shower, I sat down in the living room to relax.

At about 9:15 p.m., the sky grew dark and my sister called me to the balcony to see the expected thunder. The wind almost knocked me out. There was a burst of random colors that faded in the sky. It looked like God was turning the light switch on and off and every other minute he would throw in extra colors. The wind intensified, causing me to go back inside.

My sister and I looked outside and I said, “Imagine if all the lights go out!” She laughed. Mami was watching her third novela and suddenly the power went out. The first thing out of my mother’s mouth was, “Ay, mi novela.”

We laughed. It reminded us of being in Dominican Republic and some old lady from the neighborhood would scream, “se fue la luz!” as if the rest of us were blind and could not notice the darkness.

Soon we lost service and there we were sitting in darkness. No water, power, or service. Moments later someone was knocking on our door with desperation. I opened and saw a familiar face. It was a young lady I always encountered in the elevator, but never had the chance to talk to. She was crying hysterically because the lights had gone out as she was walking up the stairs. Now I live on the 17th floor. She was going up to the 24th from the first floor. How she ended up knocking on my door in darkness, I don’t know. I pulled her in and gave her some water.

I looked out the balcony and noticed that the firefighters were not downstairs. What if someone was stuck in the elevator? I grabbed a flashlight and went through every floor with my sister banging on every elevator, hoping that no one would reply. For a moment I was transported to a movie scene. A long dark hallway, complete silence, and a flashlight running out of battery. All I could do was pray on behalf of those who might be stuck. Thankfully no one was trapped inside. I took a breath and headed back upstairs after my mother called me screaming that she was afraid of being by herself. By the time I went up the 17 flights of stairs (which I had already used 4 times), my mom had called half the world telling them that a small tornado passed by and she survived.

“Ay, m’ija un tornado que paso por aqui.” Is my mom the only one that exaggerates? I am still trying to figure out how my cousin saw a flying car in NJ from his 7th floor apartment window on 181st and Amsterdam in Washington Heights. I could not stop laughing.

We grabbed some chairs and sat on the balcony, and we saw the dark city in front of us. Police sirens were everywhere and in the distance we heard a car playing some bachata. We spoke till 1 a.m. and finally decided to hit the sack. It was hot, dark, and there was no water. I had no option, but to sleep like Eve. I laid in bed smiling. What a day! I ended up working out my legs again, spending quality time with my family (which otherwise would have been interrupted by the demon called TV) and I laughed. I reminisced and laughed. I felt as if I had just lived chapter one of “A Series of Unfortunate Events.”

Ironically enough, I was at peace and loving it. This is only the beginning.

I sat next to a woman in the nail salon today and was talking to her about the fact that they had the ESPN channel on TV. We were both laughing when I said, “This isn’t a sports bar, it’s a nail salon!” When we asked the staff why and if we could have the channel changed we were told they were not allowed. The conversation quickly turned to culture — how the Asian culture traditionally respects authority so much so that even if a customer requested a change they would not disobey their boss; whereas, in the US, customer service is the driving force. I even mentioned that culturally, looking into someone’s eyes is a sign of disrespect for many Asians. It was a good conversation about cultural differences. Or so I thought.

What a surprise when this kind, grandmotherly woman quickly turned the conversation to immigrants and the fact that immigrants come to this country and don’t want to speak English and expect to serve “us” but cannot communicate with “us.” I’m looking at this woman like, “Are you kidding me? Are you really attempting to have this conversation with me? Do you not recognize that I am from immigrant stock? Is it not obvious to you that I may have a different opinion on this matter?”

As my eyes bulged out of my head and as I try to suppress a smile of disbelief (I tend to smile when I’m in a situation I think is crazy like, this is a joke, right?, this can’t be happening, right?) So here I am trying to teach this old lady (no offense) the facts — that statistically most immigrants lose the ability to speak their language by the 3rd generation. That is, over time immigrants assimilate into the culture. I shared my example: my parents speak Spanish but know enough English to get by. I speak both English and Spanish although I think in English only. My daughter speaks English with a sprinkle of Spanish, the exact opposite of my parents. In fact, I told her, I’m sending my daughter to a Spanish-language immersion program for the summer. My point was, basically, don’t worry — eventually immigrants get there naturally.

But even the facts were not enough to deter her.

Then it was like a light bulb turned on for me. I finally got why people are so anti-immigrant — NOT anti-undocumented immigrants but immigrants as a whole. It was as clear to me as “day” as they say. Seriously, I never even considered this reason. Never even thought about it.

Why? Why all this animosity? Why no empathy for people who come to this country just like their own families did — most with nothing, just like their own families, to struggle and find a better way of life? Why would or could you not relate to this experience? It’s so interesting to me and quite profound when I finally got it at the nail salon talking to the modern day version of Aunt Bee.

They’re jealous. And arrogant. This may sound simplistic but frankly many things in life are simple; we just tend to make it complicated. Why jealous? Because I bet they wish they didn’t have to assimilate so much. I bet they wish they didn’t have to give up their language, heritage. I bet they wish they could have communicated with their grandparents more. They couldn’t because mom and dad would not speak to them in their language. I bet they wish they could have visited their home country more. It’s the attitude of “We had it hard, we had to do it, we had to suffer, why can’t these new immigrants have it just as hard as we did? Why should we make it EASY for them by accepting their language? By creating services for their language specifically? We didn’t have that, no one made it easy for me, why should we make it easy for them?”

It’s childish. It’s jealousy. It’s a tantrum. Essentially, America is going through a collective good old-fashioned temper tantrum. Just like a 2-year-old that’s jealous when mom gives brother a bigger piece of cake. “It’s not fair!”

As a mom — here’s the mom segment for those eagerly waiting; ok so only Donald — I teach my daughter about sharing, about leaving a place better than you found it, about helping others when you can and to make sure she takes care of herself first. If we can do better, be more helpful, provide more resources then why wouldn’t we? Why would we deliberately hold back and WANT others to suffer? Just because we did? Frankly, adults are allowed to get away with things we would NEVER allow our kids to get away with. We are allowed a temper tantrum and call it public policy, a debate, an issue.

Ok, so why arrogant? Well it’s the idea that just because we did it that way it’s the right way, the only way. There are no other options or the other options are wrong. That’s a flawed argument. Because the collective country agreed to assimilate in this way is that what everyone else should do? If people keep thinking this way they are gonna live frustrated lives. We don’t even watch TV or get the news the same way we did in the ’80s, much less in the ’40s, ’50s and ’60s. Times, they are a changin’ and you better change with it or some Gen Xer is gonna write about you in her blog.

So my nails were dry and we left on a positive note or at least I did, smiling and friendly as I always am. “Nice talking to you,” I said and wished her well. Walked out, my head held high. I’m sure that’s not a conversation or the person she was looking for.

I had to watch Hillary’s speech on Saturday. And I had to watch it live – on TV that is. And I have to admit I was touched.

No matter how you felt about her, she was a woman who ran for President and came about as close as you can get to being the party’s candidate.

As a woman – and as one of a certain age – I found it cool. I think her candidacy may have been especially cool for those of us who can remember a time when cigarette commercials beckoned us to an early death with the “you’ve come a long way, baby” slogan.

I found myself a little sad as I watched her read her speech, and I know I saw some deep sadness in her eyes. As usual, she was a pro although I’m sure her heart was breaking under that pantsuit jacket.

I’ve seen Hillary out on the campaign trail. The first time was when she came to stump for her husband and I was on press row at the Statehouse. I remember how young she looked as she stood outside on the Statehouse steps with a headband in her shoulder length hair.

Years later, I saw her give speeches when I was working on the Corzine gubernatorial campaign and I viewed her up close – but I never went up to speak with her. I’m not sure if I felt a little intimidated or just a little shy or I just didn’t want to bother the senator – or a combination of all these factors. She always held her head erect and her back very straight – no matter if she was on stage or waiting in the wings.

I also saw Obama when he came to a string of rallies for the same candidate. I remember an African-American man approached me before one rally began and asked me if I could get Obama and Jon Corzine to sign a program for him. They were both senators at that time. Not a problem, I said.

I went to a back room where Obama and Corzine were taking a needed break before they spoke to the crowd. Senator Obama was sprawled in a chair, his long legs stretched in front of him. He looked exhausted and hot. I introduced myself to him and found him very approachable. He and Corzine readily and good-naturedly signed the program. When I returned the signed program to the man, he was ectastic.

I can see why the crowds go wild for Obama. As a Puerto Rican and an American, I’m proud to see him run.

I know that sexism played a role in what happened to Hillary although I know that’s only one of the reasons that her campaign failed. I was recently reminded of the sexism entrenched in the political world when I was in the green room at a local television studio and a congressional candidate walked into the room and acknowledged everyone else in the room – all males – and shook their hands. He barely glanced my way. I instantly stretched out my hand and introduced myself.

So Saturday, June 7th, marks another chapter in this historic presidential campaign. But I’ll always wonder “What if …” when it comes to Hillary.

And if I ever get a chance to see Hillary again in person, I hope I will get an opportunity to walk up to her and shake her hand, and say “Thanks Hillary.”

Or maybe I’ll just dap her.